


but if the road’s been kinda bumpy (and you need to rest a spell)

by SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No fears AU, could potentially have a huge plot except i just care about pain, field medicine, i swear this is still happening im getting on vyvanse soon, in my notes as, jon gets stabbed au, martin owns a hotel au, maybe if everybody involved got hit really hard on the head right after, oh wow this is the first thing ive written for this fandom that definitely could not be canon at all, that last one's not really an au is it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28696905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse/pseuds/SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse
Summary: There’s a man dripping blood onto the floor of the lobby of Martin’s hotel. This is concerning. Even more concerning, possibly, is that he seems not to want to acknowledge the fact that he’s bleeding. He’s trying to book a room.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 61
Kudos: 172





	1. no-tell motel

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Happiness Hotel by the Muppets. The fic itself has nothing to do with Muppets, but if you want to imagine the characters as Muppet versions of themselves there’s nothing I can do to stop you. 
> 
> Content warnings for graphic depictions of injuries, blood, illness, and the incorrect and unpleasant application of field medicine

There’s a man dripping blood onto the floor of the lobby of Martin’s hotel. This is concerning. Even more concerning, possibly, is that he seems not to want to acknowledge the fact that he’s bleeding. He’s trying to book a room. 

“The Cat Dragged Inn,” he says, through slightly gritted teeth. “That’s a nice name. Clever.”

“Er. Thanks,” says Martin. He does like the name. It  _ was  _ clever when his mother first purchased the building, but now, twenty years later, is mostly just accurate. The hotel is shabby, and getting just a bit shabbier with every soft  _ plink  _ of blood onto the tile. Really, is  _ Martin  _ going to have to bring it up?

“You don’t happen to have anything free on the ground floor, do you?” says the man. He has begun to lean heavily on the counter of the front desk, an elbow almost touching the guest book Martin has open in front of him and an arm wrapped around his gut. “I like to avoid stairs. For my knees.” 

“For your knees,” Martin repeats. 

“If it isn’t any trouble.” 

God, but it must be past midnight. Martin wouldn’t know, the lobby’s clock is broken, but he’d definitely been deeply asleep on the cot tucked behind the front desk when the ringing (and ringing and ringing) of the little push-bell had woken him. He understands now why it was so expensive to keep a receptionist, back when they could afford one. Being polite is, at the moment, very much an acquired skill. “Ground floor. Let me see.” He pretends to look at the guestbook, but he knows he has a room free. He has most rooms free, actually, except for a few occupied by long-time boarders and the one Martin’s mother used to sleep in. He doesn’t let that one to anyone, anymore. “Alright, we do have Room 114 open. Will you be staying just the one night?”

“Yes, yes,” says the man. “And I’ll pay cash.” His words have started to bump into each other at the ends, and when Martin slides him the guest book and a pen he scribbles something that looks to Martin like a fishhook trailing a long, squiggly worm before slapping a crumpled handful of bills down on the counter. These, at least, don’t have any blood on them. 

“Great,” says Martin, even though it really isn’t. “Will you be needing any help with your…” He peers over the counter, but doesn’t actually see anything on the ground besides even more blood and...a tape recorder? “...bags?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” says the man, and then his eyes roll back into his head, and he faints.

“Jesus shit!” Martin lunges across the counter and grabs the man by the collar of his jacket before he cracks his head on the ground. They hang like that for a moment, Martin stretched as far as he’s able with a hand braced on the counter’s edge, and the man ragdoll limp, slumped over with his head lolling to the side. It’s a nice-looking head, so at least he’s got that going for him. 

Not the time. Martin hauls the man onto the counter, although it’s less of a haul and more of a tug that sends him stumbling backwards, almost falling over himself with how unexpectedly light the man is. Not that he’s all that light, exactly, it’s just that with the way he showed up all bleeding and stoic like an action hero, Martin sort of expected him to have the musculature to match. And why is he thinking about what kind of  _ muscles  _ the man does or does not have when he’s  _ bleeding  _ to death Jesus  _ Christ—  _ He gets him up there, anyway, shoving aside the guest book and bell and everything else so he has room to lay him down. Now that the man’s not hunched in on himself Martin can see where the blood is actually coming from: a long slash down the right side of his abdomen, straight through the button-down he’s wearing under his coat. More blood is already beginning to pool underneath him, running off the saturated fabric and dripping onto the counter. This, based on Martin’s limited knowledge of hemorrhaging wounds, is probably not good. It’s possible that he’s panicking right now. 

Pressure. He’s supposed to put pressure on it. Or at least that’s what they usually do during medical emergencies in the soaps his mum used to watch, before they get into all the kiss of life stuff. Which will not be necessary in this situation! Martin grabs a towel from the stack under the desk, sending a pile of plastic-wrapped toothbrushes tumbling to the floor, and then he rolls up his sleeves and positions the towel so that it covers the entire wound. Now that he thinks about it, he’s not actually sure precisely how much pressure he’s supposed to apply. A lot? A lot seems like a good idea. Like the people on the soaps do with the fake chest compressions, right before they slap their love interest across the face and say ‘Don’t die on me, god damn it!’ Which might be necessary in this situation. Anyway. Martin braces himself against the edge of the counter, and then he slams his hands down over the bloody towel and shoves against the wound as hard as he can. 

The man wakes up with a gasp, which also usually happens on TV, and then he screams and starts clawing at Martin’s arms and thrashing, which doesn’t. Martin has a strong and sudden desire to start screaming himself, and run, but manages to keep his hands where they are, feeling like he’s riding one of those mechanical bulls he sees at fairs sometimes as he struggles to keep the man still on the desk. The man breathes in huge ragged gulps; his eyes dart around the room without stopping to take anything in. Here, finally, is something Martin knows how to fix. He’s an expert, almost — all those long nights keeping watch at his mother’s bedside, waiting for her to shoot up from her pillows with that hacking, airless cough, choking on the fluid in her lungs. Waiting to soothe her into lucidity, bring her back to the world that, unfortunately, contained him. “It’s alright,” he says now, lifting a hand so that he can stroke it across the man’s forehead. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re hurt, but I’m going to take care of you.” Nice words. Probably also cribbed from some schlocky TV show, now that Martin thinks about it, because he certainly can’t remember anyone ever saying something like that to him. He loosens the pressure on the towel a bit, and that finally seems to help. The man stops scratching at Martin’s arm and instead just clutches at it, squeezing his wrist with both hands while staring straight ahead and breathing very slowly. 

“Good,” says Martin. “Good. Deep breaths, just like that.” He breathes deeply himself, partially to demonstrate but mostly because he is absolutely definitely panicking. “I’m going to call an ambulance now, and everything is going to be—”

“No!” The man shoots up, or tries to, not getting very far before he falls back down. “No, no ambulance, no hospital, no—”

“Hey, hey. It’s going to be fine.” Still keeping a hand on the man’s abdomen, he reaches for the little corded desk phone. Dialing the first nine leaves a fingerprint of blood on the button, and he stares at it for just long enough to be surprised when the man lunges at him with a scream like metal on metal and tears the phone from his hand. For a minute Martin expects a fight — him versus some guy jacked up on adrenaline and blood loss, he’s going to feel like a tosser whether he wins or loses — but the man only flops back down on the desk and curls up around the handset. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, or groans, his voice rough and too breathy. “But they’ll find me if I go to the hospital, they, that is, I’m in some trouble, and I can’t—” He chokes, stops talking. Rocks back and forth and clutches onto the handset like it’s a buoy keeping him afloat in some storm Martin can’t see. Martin could probably knock him back out if wanted to, press just a bit harder on the wound and overwhelm him with the pain that’s already threatening to drown him. Wipe the blood off the phone and call an ambulance and  _ not  _ have to deal with having someone’s life in his hands ever again.

“Who will find you?” he asks instead.

“They, I can’t, I can’t tell you, but you, but you’re safe.” The man’s eyes keep sliding shut and then popping back open. “You’re safe here, they don’t know, but if they did, if they found me, and they  _ would—”  _ He goes still, and Martin thinks maybe he’s passed out all on his own, but then he straightens out a bit, and his gaze locks on Martin’s. “I wouldn’t be able to protect you.”

Later Martin will tell himself he had a better reason. That he’d thought an ambulance wouldn’t be able to get here soon enough anyway, or that the situation wasn’t anything his daytime TV field medicine skills couldn’t fix, or even that he’d truly cared about his own safety. It isn’t any of that, of course. It’s just that there’s a man, and he’s halfway to dying right in front of him, in so much pain that his eyes are clouding over— and he wants to protect Martin. To keep him safe. Like a knight in a fairy tale. One of the original Grimm’s versions, sure, with how much blood there is everywhere, but still. It’s been a while since anyone’s wanted to take care of Martin, and, well. Hunger makes you stupid, sometimes. 

“Alright,” he says, and the words seem slightly too loud to be coming out of his own mouth. “You can stay. But you’re going to need my help.”


	2. hotel bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Listen,” Martin says. “I never told you my name, did I?”
> 
> “No,” Jon says. “Apparently you’re much better at secrecy than I am.” 
> 
> “Well it’s Martin,” says Martin. “Martin Blackwood. My name is Martin Blackwood and I’ve been living and working at this hotel since I was eight and I have no idea how to treat knife wounds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on medical accuracy in this fic: Jon has about twice the amount of blood as a normal person and we should all be happy for him. Like I tried not to make this totally ridiculous but whenever realism and fun with pain conflicted I chose fun with pain.
> 
> Content warnings for graphic depictions of injuries, blood, illness, vomit, drowning, some suicidal ideation, drugs, alcohol, and the incorrect and unpleasant application of field medicine

“No,” says the man. 

“No?” says Martin. “No what? I— You _do_ want me to call an ambulance?” He’s starting to feel stupid already. Real life doesn’t operate according to storybook logic, obviously. Most people prefer actual medical attention to— to whatever Martin is right now. 

“No, I don’t need your help,” says the man, a little sharply. _“Thank_ you, for the offer, but a room and maybe a first aid kit and I’ll be—” He cuts off with a gasp. “I’ll be—” 

“Sorry, what was that?” Martin knows he really shouldn’t be annoyed with someone who’s currently bleeding out in front of him, but come _on._ “Didn’t quite catch it over how absolutely peachy you sound.” 

The man sighs through his teeth and gives Martin a look that somehow contains both grudging respect and utter agony. “I— I don’t want to get you involved,” he says. 

“Involved?” Martin yelps. “You got me _involved_ when you showed up spewing blood like a fucking firehose!” In the silence that follows his words, Martin remembers quite suddenly that they are not, in fact, alone in this hotel. “Sorry,” he says, lowering his voice to something like controlled hysteria. “I’m just— I’m just freaking out a bit. Obviously. I’ll go make us a cup of tea, and we can—“ 

“Er, wait.” The man drops the phone to grab onto Martin’s sleeve. “At, at any other time, I’d be very grateful, but...I believe you said like a firehose?”

“Oh! Right, yes. God.” Martin readjusts his grip on the towel, which is pretty much soaked through now. He’s not sure how much a person can bleed before it starts to be a problem, but it’s definitely less than this. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Stop,” says the man, and then he makes a clicking noise in the back of his throat and grabs Martin’s wrists to move the towel a bit to the left of where he’d been pressing it. His hands are damp with freezing sweat, but careful. “You’re right. I did get you involved in this, and I am sorry. Truly.”

“Don’t be,” says Martin. “Just let me help you.”

The man breathes through his teeth. He’s still got his hands on Martin’s wrists — not holding him there, just holding him. “Thank you,” he says finally. “My— my name is Jonathan Sims. You can call me Jon, if you’d like.” He pauses at whatever expression he sees on Martin’s face. “I thought you might want to know.” 

“I do.” Martin tries for a smile. “And I couldn’t read your handwriting.”

“Oh, that. That’s not my real name. Obviously I checked in under a pseudonym.”

Martin thinks back to the semi-legible scribble. “A pseudonym that also starts with a J?”

“Look, I’ve lost a lot of blood—”

“You have, you have.” Martin really doesn’t know why he’s smiling as he says this. “Here, let me get a fresh one of these.” 

“Gah!” Jon’s fingernails dig into Martin’s wrists when he tries to pull the towel away. “You don’t want to move that, it’s, you’re not trying to push the blood back _in,_ y-you just want to give it something to clot against. If you pull it off you’re just going to rip it all back open.” 

“Got it,” Martin says, trying to sound confident and reassuring. “Can I put a new towel on top of this one, then?” 

“If you’d like.” He tentatively drops one of Martin’s wrists. “And then we should really— Do you know how to sew?”

“A bit.” Martin grabs another towel from under the desk. This one has little ducklings printed on it and is going to look very unfortunate in a minute. “I mostly knit, though. Socks and things.” 

Jon presses his lips together, opens his mouth as if to say something, and instead begins hyperventilating. 

“Hey, hey.” He puts the second towel on top of the first one, pushes down just hard enough to ground Jon with that little spike of pain. Or not so little, judging by the teakettle-ish sound Jon makes. “It’s alright,” Martin says, wrapping his free arm around Jon’s shoulders. “We’re going to g-get you fixed up. I think.” And so much for confidence. “Can you hold this for me?” he asks, gesturing to the pile of towels with his chin, and Jon complies with a shaky nod. That’s good. Give him something to focus on, a distraction. Martin wishes _he_ had a distraction right now. 

He gets an arm under Jon’s knees and lifts him off of the desk, trying to go slowly enough not to make Jon dizzy but his head tips backward anyway. “Hey. You with me?”

 _“Socks,”_ Jon groans, and buries his face in Martin’s shoulder. 

“Good,” says Martin. Even though it really isn’t. 

The hotel is as quiet at this hour as it always is, and familiar even with most of the lights off. Martin walks slowly anyway, not wanting to jostle Jon with any abrupt movements. He keeps up a steady stream of soothing nonsense, and doesn’t let himself think about how this is the first time in months he’ll be going in his mother’s room, because it’s ridiculous to be worrying about that right now. It doesn’t _matter._ Everything he has that passes for medical supplies is in that room, and if he’s going to avoid it because it makes _him_ uncomfortable— Well, that would be typical of his selfishness, wouldn’t it? But wrong. Obviously. 

Jon mutters slurred curses into Martin’s shoulder as he shifts him to open the door and turn on the light, and that’s enough motivation to get him over the threshold. He tries not to look at anything, but of course he can’t really avoid it. The bed is just as he left it, sheets stripped; the IV pole stands empty. The hard-backed chair at the bedside is draped with the too-small blanket he used to huddle under at night. His mum’s slippers are still lined up beside the bed, where he’d left them even after she stopped getting up. He kicks them under the bed as he sets Jon down on it, so that he at least doesn’t have to think about _that._

Luckily he can focus on Jon’s horrible gaping wound instead. He peels Jon’s hands off of the stack of towels, then peels those off too. A big gout of fresh blood comes with them, dotted with torn clots like seeds in a strawberry. He doesn’t even try to wipe any of it away, just leans in for a better look at the thing. It had seemed like a clean slash when he’d first seen it, but it’s actually all ragged at the edges, and doesn’t look like it’ll quite match up if he tries to pull it shut. Martin has a sudden and newly nauseating memory of cutting up construction paper with his mother’s pinking shears. How is he supposed to fix this? 

Martin’s still psyching himself up to actually _touch_ the thing when he realizes that Jon isn’t squirming and swearing anymore, but instead lying very, very still. Breathing, but slowly, staring at nothing with his eyes half-shut. Martin remembers his mother getting like this towards the end, when the pain was so strong that she simply didn’t have the energy to fight against it. And even himself, in the months after. Too sad to cry. Lying in bed staring at the ceiling until some bodily need overpowered the inertia. That’s not going to work for Jon. God, he doesn’t know what to _do._

“Hey,” he says, placing a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Hey, Jon?”

“Guh,” says Jon. He opens his mouth to say this, and doesn’t close it after. 

“Listen,” Martin says, and it’s not going to work but what does he have to lose? “I never told you my name, did I?”

“No,” Jon says. He opens his eyes a little, breathes out a laugh. “Apparently you’re much better at secrecy than I am.” 

“Well it’s Martin,” says Martin. “Martin Blackwood. My name is Martin Blackwood and I’ve been living and working at this hotel since I was eight and I have no idea how to treat knife wounds.”

Jon nods. “I had...sort of assumed.”

“You’d assumed I’d been living here since I was eight?”

“Nn. Second part.”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, well that’s what I’m saying. I’m going to need your help.”

“Don’t know how much help I can offer,” Jon says. He glances down at the knife wound in question, which has continued bleeding steadily since Martin took the towels off of it. Fuck, maybe he shouldn’t have done that so soon. 

“I don’t need you to stitch it up yourself,” he says. “Just walk me through it. Look, can’t you get your second wind or something?”

“This _is_ my second wind.” 

“Please,” Martin says. “I can’t do this without you. I don’t know how to sew _people,_ I— I don’t even know where to find a needle and thread, for God’s sake, I just need you to—” His voice breaks, and to his horror he realizes he’s starting to tear up. Because he’s really the one who deserves to be crying right now. God, he’s doing it again, making it all about him and his feelings, and when he looks at Jon’s face he almost swears he’s sneering like his mother used to when—

But no, of course he isn’t. He’s got his eyes closed now, his jaw clenched. “Alright,” he says slowly. “Alright. You should wake someone up as soon as you can, to establish an alibi. Oh, but clean up the blood first, obviously. As for disposal...I don’t have any particularly recognizable fillings, but you can knock my teeth out with a hammer if you want, just to be safe.”

“Wh—” Martin’s missed some steps in an already undeniably weird conversation. “I don’t want to knock your _teeth_ out with a _hammer!”_

“I know.” Jon sighs. “And I’m sorry that you have to, but if someone finds my body—"

“What? No! Just because I can’t give you stitches doesn’t mean I’m giving up, I—”

“And what do you suggest, then? Paper mache?” Jon is silent for a moment, and then he opens his eyes. Martin hadn’t noticed his eyes before, what with literally everything else that had been going on. They’re nice eyes. Tired eyes. Jon looks like he was tired even before he started dying. “Of course you aren’t giving up, Martin,” he says. “This isn’t — listen to me — this isn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have come here. And I really am sorry—”

“Be quiet so I can think.” And he does try to think, but mostly he’s just staring at the ever growing pool of blood and feeling his heart rate go up. Why hadn’t he just told Jon to shut up in the first place and called the damn ambulance? Had he really thought he could save someone’s life with daytime TV and— _“Star Wars!”_

“What,” says Jon. 

“Have you seen it?” Martin’s already up, springing from his chair and heading straight for the closet, rummaging through his mother’s old clothes and a spare duvet. “Come on—”

“I hardly think I’ll have time now, if that’s what you’re asking,” says Jon. “But yes, I’ve seen the first three.”

“Okay,” says Martin, now throwing open drawers. “Well you know that scene in _Empire—_ Well, _the_ scene in _Empire,_ I mean—”

“Martin.”

“When Darth Vader chops off Luke’s hand, except it doesn’t bleed because the lightsaber is hot enough to—”

“To cauterize the wound, yes. Although actually it’s not the saber itself that’s hot, it’s rather that the energy of the lazer accelerates—”

“Jon.” 

“Well, in our universe. We don’t _really_ know how lightsabers work.”

“No,” says Martin. There’s only one drawer he hasn’t opened, because of course this night needed suspense too. He shoves aside a couple socks and a stack of romance novels that definitely don’t belong to him, and there it is. “But we _do_ know how _this_ works.” With a flourish, he holds up the room’s clothes iron. 

Jon stares at it. Blinks, for a minute. “You’re a fucking lunatic,” he says. There is something like wonder in his voice. 

Martin’s never thought before about how long it takes an iron to heat up. Too long, is the answer. But he rinses it off, plugs it in, puts the towels back in place and lets Jon cling onto his arm while he scrolls on his phone through the goddamn WikiHow page for cauterization, because that’s apparently what’s happening in his life right now. 

“Okay,” says Martin, scrolling past illustrations of people smiling as they rub silver nitrate onto their open wounds. “It says to ‘note that cauterization is an incredibly painful procedure and should only be considered in a life or death scenario.’”

“Think this counts,” says Jon. 

“Ooh, and I should give you something to bite down on, because it’ll be, quote, ‘extremely painful and jarring.’”

“Stop telling me how much it’s going to hurt!”

“Sorry.” The hand Martin is holding the towels with is starting to go numb with how hard Jon is gripping it. “Here.” He drops his phone, the screen of which is now all rainbow-pixelled from his nervous sweat, and twists so that he can reach the nightstand tucked away behind him. “The good drugs,” he says, rattling the half-empty pill bottle as he picks it up. “My mum used to love these. Well, not _love,_ but you know.”

“Your mum?”

“Yeah.”

“How is she doing now?”

“Oh. She’s, uh, she’s gone.” The little indicator light on the iron flicks on, and Martin turns away to spare himself whatever sympathy Jon is about to offer. “It’s hot enough.”

“Good. Felt like I was waiting for the kettle to boil.” 

Martin snorts. “Well, _I_ feel like I’m going to throw up, so watch out for that.”

“If you don’t want to do this—” Jon starts, but Martin shakes his head. 

“Shh. Just— Do you think you can stay still?” He picks up the iron, puts it down, wipes the sweat off his hands and picks it up again. “Because it says I’m supposed to do this slowly.” 

“Of course it does.” Jon sighs. “Go ahead.”

“You’re ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“You’re sure?”

Jon smiles with clenched teeth. “'Search your feelings. You know it to be true.'”

“I changed my mind,” says Martin. “I’m going to let you die.” And with that he presses the iron down.

When Martin had turned twelve, his mother had added to his list of daily chores the task of checking the chlorine levels in the hotel’s tiny, shitty pool. Something simple, she’d said, that even he couldn’t screw up. He’d screwed it up immediately. Had run out onto the slick tile ready to do something right for once, slipped, cracked his head on the floor, and slid into the pool like a spaghetti noodle going limp. He’d had a brief moment, as he sank, of amazement at the fantastic constancy of his own incompetence, and then things had started to blur. His focus had narrowed to the bit of breath left in his lungs and the distance between himself and the water’s surface. Everything else had whited out, blended with the ringing rising in his ears. Time had slowed, every movement taking longer and longer until it felt like they were one thing, the water and Martin drowning in it. Later, lying soaked and panting next to a pool he couldn’t really remember escaping, he’d wondered why no one had ever told him how pleasant it felt to die. 

The only difference between how that felt and how this feels is that Jon knows many, many more curse words than twelve-year-old Martin. 

“Jesus fucking Christ fucking god damn son of a—”

Martin keeps moving the iron, his tongue between his teeth. The blood smeared across Jon’s skin is turning to little wisps of steam in the heat. Sizzling like bacon in a frying pan. Or maybe that’s just Martin’s imagination.

“God fucking damn f— Gerry, Gerry I—”

It smells like bacon, anyway. Or something slightly off from it, sweet and greasy. But the bleeding is slowing. The wound is sealing, swelling into blisters. They look like they’d squish if Martin poked them.

Jon makes incoherent little yelps, screams, cut-off groans of pain.

Martin keeps ironing until he’s done. He shuts off the iron, and sets it on the nightstand where it won’t start any fires. He takes one of the less gruesome towels and wipes the blood off his hands and the sweat off his forehead. Then he leans forward and pukes onto his own shoes.

“God,” he says. “Alright.” On the bed, Jon is still making noises which, now that Martin is listening, are really quite terrible. The hand he’s not biting twitches and curls like a smacked spider. “Oh,” says Martin. “I guess I forgot to give you something to put in your mouth. A- and the pills. Shit, shit, water—” 

He legs it to the attached bathroom, realizing too late that he’s tracking vomit all over the floor. Not like things can get much worse at this point. There’s some plastic mouthwash cups, at least, and he rinses his mouth out before filling a fresh cup for Jon. He has to work Jon’s fingers out from between his teeth and help him sit up enough to drink, and even then it seems to take him a couple seconds to remember how to swallow, but he gets the pills down before sagging back against the arm Martin’s got around his shoulders. 

They sit there like that for a while, Jon still making helpless horrible little noises as tears stream down his face. Martin strokes his hair with his free hand and murmurs words he forgets the instant they leave his mouth. He’s never watched somebody cry before. Not in real life. The way Jon cries, it’s like there’s something just out of Martin’s view pouring the tears onto his cheeks while he lies frozen. Does he always cry like this?

Martin’s arm has started to cramp from how he’s holding it before Jon finally stops crying and opens his eyes. It can’t be the pills yet — they always take too long to work — so maybe it’s the relief of knowing they will. 

“I should ask,” Jon says, voice hoarse, “is this room smoking, or non-smoking?”

Martin stares at him. “I _just_ saved your life.”

“Yes, well, the speed at which cigarettes are going to kill me is a _bit_ slower than the speed at which—”

“Alright, alright,” Martin sighs. “I get it. Go ahead.” 

“Thank you. Er— They’re in my coat pocket, I think? I don’t really want to move quite yet.”

“Of course.” Martin has to peel the pocket of Jon’s coat open, it’s so soaked with blood, but the cigarettes are safe in the plastic packaging of their carton. He takes one out, and Jon opens his lips to accept it, which is, alright— Smoking does have some positives.

“There’s a lighter,” Jon says, and Martin finds it and flicks it on. He cups his hand around the flame, like he’s seen people do in old movies, and brings it up to Jon’s face. His fingers brush Jon’s cheek. The cigarette catches. Jon sighs with what’s probably some heady combination of bliss and agony as he inhales. “You want some? Calm you down.”

The urge to put up to his mouth something that’s touched Jon’s is stupidly strong. “I don’t smoke.” 

“Mm. Think I’ve got a handle of whiskey in there too.”

Martin takes this and drinks it without comment.

“Oh, and—” Jon clenches his teeth around the cigarette. “And a tape recorder?”

“Think that’s still in the lobby,” Martin says, chasing the whiskey with a mouthful of his sleeve. “Along with quite a bit of blood.”

“Oh. Er, do you think you could—”

“I’ll get it,” says Martin. “I should tidy up anyway. Try not to die?”

Jon laughs, and Martin figures that’s a good enough answer. He doesn’t actually know what he would do if Jon stopped breathing or something anyway. His limited medical skills are pretty much exhausted. As is he.

But someone needs to take care of the hotel, and so he troops back to the lobby as the whiskey works its way up to his head. He hums “The Hospital Song” while he clears off the front desk, pockets the tape recorder, puts a “Caution: Wet Floor” sign over the pool of blood on the tile. No, he should probably cover that up instead of further alerting people to its presence. He throws a towel over it, watches the blood seep through, and finally mops it up. It’s been a long night. But he should be used to that by now.

By the time Martin gets back to the room, the pills have clearly started working; Jon’s sat up in bed, holding the burnt-out stub of a cigarette, putting it up to his lips and inhaling nothing like Martin used to do with twigs when he was ten years old and wanted to feel cool. When Martin hands him the tape recorder he hugs it to his chest like it’s a teddy bear. Must be some good blackmail on there, or something. A scandal for the press to try and suffix with -gate for the umpteenth time. He shouldn’t ask.

“Get some sleep,” he tells Jon. “I’ll— I’ll sit up with you, if that’s alright. Make sure you’re comfortable.”

“You’re very nice, Martin Blackwood,” says Jon. The cigarette falls to the blood stained mattress when he opens his mouth. “Who told you that you had to be so nice all the time?” It’s a rude thing to say, but there’s warmth in Jon’s voice when he says it. Or maybe that’s just the drugs. 

Martin pats him on the head because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Lie down. You’re going to make it hurt more.”

“Yes _sir,”_ Jon says, and then he lies down and shuts his eyes, leaving Martin to add horniness to the incredibly weird soup of emotions he’s experiencing right now. 

He sighs and turns out the light, gives Jon the too-small blanket and slumps down in the hard-backed chair. It’s been a long night. It’s going to keep being a long night. 

But with the whiskey warm in his stomach, with Jon breathing softly next to him, cracking his eyes open just once to reach a hand out towards Martin in the dark — it might not be an entirely unpleasant one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.wikihow.com/Cauterize-a-Wound. I love WikiHow so much. They’re like for the love of god please don’t do this but if you’re going to anyway here’s how. Also, a link to the song Martin's humming! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K4NYG6DZHIg&ab_channel=10cc-Topic. For all your weird song listening pleasures.


	3. if it wasn't for the sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I owe you an explanation.”  
> “You do!” squeaks Martin. “I mean, yeah, that would be nice.”  
> “I know it’s not much,” says Jon. “Since I did keep you up all night and, ah, you’re probably going to have to throw this mattress out, but—” He raises an eyebrow. “You do seem curious.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! If you live alone and can’t remember where people’s hands go when they touch each other, you can map it out with drawing dummies. Happy Valentine’s day everybody.
> 
> Also I apparently missed some minor details such as did Martin cauterize Jon’s stab wound through his fucking shirt so we are just rolling with that this chapter. Jon’s shirt was unbuttoned the entire time I just never mentioned it because it wasn’t relevant to Martin’s journey. Love you all thanks for reading.
> 
> Content warnings for mentions of child abuse, mentions of death, description of a depressive episode, injuries, and vomit

Martin wakes with a headache and a vague feeling of guilt. Of these, only the headache is confusing. There’s usually something left undone when he falls asleep, or else something to be done in the morning that he hasn’t adequately prepared for. He can’t quite remember what he might have done wrong right now, though. And his  _ head.  _ It’s almost amazing how much it hurts. Like someone’s snaked a strand of floss in one of his ears and out the other, and now they’re rubbing it back and forth against the inside of his skull. He hardly even wants to open his eyes. But he’s used to that, and so he does.

Holy shit. 

The events of last night come back to Martin just in time to stop him screaming. Which is good, because if anyone can use some sleep, it’s the guy lying in a ridiculously large pool of dried blood. Jonathan Sims. Jon. That’s what Martin knows about him. His preferred nickname, and what he sounds like when he’s getting his flesh seared with an iron. 

And that he’s really quite pretty, in the pale morning light coming through the half-open curtains. Martin had imagined him like an action hero last night, hard lines and sharp angles, but his face has smoothed itself in his drugged sleep, and it’s soft, open. He has long eyelashes and a pinprick mole near the corner of his mouth. Martin leans in for a closer look — and to check if he’s breathing, which is maybe a  _ bit  _ more important — and notices the tape recorder, now tucked under Jon’s arm. He wonders again what’s on it. He’d assumed last night that it was some sort of bargaining chip or otherwise deathly important secret  _ thing,  _ but Jon really is just...cuddling it. Like it brings him comfort. 

Of course, knowing that you have irrefutable evidence of an assassination or sex scandal or something could also be comforting, and, actually, it’s beginning to sink in that Martin has no idea who Jon is or what the hell he’s doing here or  _ what the hell is on that tape.  _ All he knows is what Jon’s told him. And that he’d believed it without question. His mother had always said he was too naive, and now look at him, trusting that someone would only avoid hospitals after getting  _ knif _ ed half to death for good, selfless reasons. Any minute now Jon could wake up and inform Martin that he’s stolen the crown jewels, or that he’s killed somebody, or that he needs a hostage. And Martin will have no one but himself to blame. 

Trying not to breathe too loudly, Martin slides the tape recorder out from under Jon’s arm and presses play. 

_ “I’ll be dead by the time you hear this,”  _ a voice says, and Martin about jumps out of his seat.  _ “And I mean that, Jon, so at least listen all the way through before you go charging off into danger.”  _ A soft, fond laugh.  _ “I know I can’t stop you from doing that.”  _

Jon stirs at the sound of the voice, because Martin really didn’t plan this out at all. “Gerry?” he says. “That you?” His eyes are half-shut, dreamy looking, and they don’t seem to help him much as he gropes in the direction of the voice. “I thought— Mm.” He grabs Martin’s free hand and pulls it to his face, not kissing it exactly, but running his mouth over the knuckles, and, alright—

“Er,” says Martin. “Jon? Jon!” he tries again, and this time Jon’s eyes pop open. 

_ “— told me he’d leave you something to bury,”  _ Gerry says. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jon lunges forward and snatches the tape recorder from Martin, then gasps and doubles over in pain. “Shit, shit,  _ shit—” _

“Sorry, sorry.” The hand Jon was not-quite-kissing is still caught up in the middle of all this, and Martin tries to rub some comforting circles on Jon’s shoulder. “Do you want any more of the pills?”

“No,” Jon snaps. “They make me all—” He wiggles his fingers as he searches for a word, then groans when he apparently can’t find one to his satisfaction. “All fuzzy.”

“Sorry,” says Martin again. 

_ “You  _ didn’t do it,” Jon says, but it doesn’t sound like this distinction is particularly important to him right now, and Martin has to get out of here.

“Well if you don’t want the pills I’ll make you some tea, alright?” He has to raise his voice slightly to be heard over Gerry’s. “Get some fluids into you, that’ll be good. And some breakfast?”

“Sure, sure.” Jon pauses the tape with a thunk, and as Martin speeds away he can hear him rewinding it back to the beginning. 

Martin pauses for a breath outside the room, his back against the closed door. Which he would really like to lock right now, except it still seems sort of unfair to do that without any warning, and anyway it unlocks from the inside. So much for getting answers. Apparently he’s just going to fold whenever someone raises their voice at him. God, if Jon really  _ is  _ some hardened criminal here to blackmail him into becoming an accessory to murder, Martin is screwed. 

But in the meantime, it can’t hurt to make him breakfast. It’s around the time Martin would start getting things set up anyway, and when he reaches the hotel’s kitchen he flicks on the little square TV next to the stove to see the opening credits of the program he usually sort-of watches in the mornings. Something about hot people in hospitals having GDPR-violating personal problems. Would have been nice to remember that one last night, but he did alright. 

He flips on the electric kettle and gets everything laid out the way he likes it, teabag in an empty mug with the sugarbowl next to it even though it doesn’t really save any time. The last cup of tea he’d made someone else had been for his mother. Or it must have been. He can’t remember the exact last cup anymore. It’s gone, along with a couple weeks before and a couple weeks after, all that time replaced with grayscale flashes of the ceiling fan spinning and food falling out of his mouth when he was too apathetic to chew it and the phone rocking in its cradle as he watched it ring. Probably it had been like every other time. His mother had accepted whatever he’d made for her with a long-suffering sigh— which he can’t blame her for, of course. What, is he going to get upset at someone in horrible pain for being short with him? Not that she was ever particularly grateful even before she was ill. But he doesn’t need to think about that. When she was sick she’d eaten less. And she’d tell him not to fuss, but how couldn’t he, when she was wasting away in front of him? So he’d ask her to eat a bit more, always asking, in that wheedling, coddling tone that made him want to plug his own ears. And she’d glare, and yell, and maybe take a couple more bites before putting the half-finished meal down on the nightstand. And then he’d finish it, because even though they could afford it now he still couldn’t stand to throw things out.

But Jon isn’t his mother. Martin laughs loud enough to cover somebody’s confession of love to a coma patient. Jon isn’t his mother. Of course he isn’t. He’s a stranger off the street who knows as little about Martin as Martin does about him. And he’s laid up with a fucking knife wound, so it’s not like he’s going to be able to attack Martin or anything like that. And all his mysterious tape recorder has on it is a message from his dead boyfriend, so— Ah. Yeah, Martin does feel a bit bad about that now. 

Still, he’s in a much better mood as he finishes cooking breakfast. He fries up some eggs and sausages and tosses back some painkillers and makes snarky comments at the people on TV. “Oh, Janice takes your breath away? Maybe the pulmonologist you shagged  _ last _ week can help you with that.” He ends up invested in the plot by the middle of the episode, because he always does, but manages to tear himself away so he can go give Jon his eggs. On second thought, he adds a piece of plain toast to the plate. If the inside of Jon’s stomach looks anything like its outside, he’s probably not going to be able to keep much down. On third thought, he really should have asked Jon if he was allergic to anything. It would be kind of stupid for him to die now. But he doesn’t seem like the kind of person who’ll choke something down to be polite, so Martin piles both of their breakfasts on a tray and heads back to the room.

He shoulders open the door to see Jon collapsed halfway onto the bed, nails digging into the bare mattress. “Went to the bathroom,” he wheezes. “Might have knocked some things over in there. Sorry.”

“Jesus, Jon.” Martin hurries over to him after setting the tray down next to a dried patch of vomit. “You could have let me help you!”

Jon gives him a look that’s half annoyance, half pain as Martin helps him onto the bed. “I’d really rather you didn’t.”

“Yeah, well,  _ I’d _ rather you didn’t tear your guts back open, if it’s all the same to you.”

Jon laughs, then gasps. “Alright, alright.” He’s silent for a minute, his jaw clenched as Martin lays him back out on the bed and props him up with a couple pillows, but he grins up at Martin once he’s settled. “Suppose I shouldn’t undo all your hard work.”

Martin snorts. “I’d appreciate that.” He doubles back to get the tray, glances over his shoulder to see Jon pulling the tape recorder out from under the piled-up blanket and tucking it under his arm. “I’m sorry about that,” he says, even though not mentioning it is probably a better idea.

“Oh?” says Jon, and Martin nods to the tape recorder as he sets the tray down on Jon’s lap. “Oh. It’s alright. Well, maybe not  _ alright,  _ but— I would have done the same thing. So I can’t get mad at you for it. Or— I shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Martin. He sets his own food on the nightstand and sits down, then picks up Jon’s cup of tea and brings it up to Jon’s mouth, same as he did last night with the cigarette. 

“Er, thank you,” Jon says, as well as he can with a teacup pressed against his bottom lip. “But, ah, but I think I’m capable of this, at least, if you don’t mind.”

“Gah!” Martin almost dumps the tea down Jon’s open shirt — and onto the wound that he apparently didn’t  _ bandage  _ last night. Jesus Christ. “Sorry! Sorry, I— I’m just really tired.”

“Of course,” says Jon. He picks up the tea himself, takes a sip, and makes a face that can only be described as blissed out, which does not help Martin’s composure at all. Then he sighs, long and slow, and glances over at Martin. “I don’t think I’ve made it clear to you how grateful I am,” he says. “For all your help.” 

“I— You haven’t?” Martin’s mouth is dry. 

“Not at all,” says Jon. He puts a hand on Martin’s knee and squeezes, and Martin finds it necessary to  _ very  _ quickly place his own plate on his lap, because this is an ethically dubious situation at  _ best  _ and— 

“I owe you an explanation.”

“You do!” squeaks Martin. “I mean, yeah, that would be nice.”

“I know it’s not much,” says Jon. “Since I did keep you up all night and, ah, you’re probably going to have to throw this mattress out, but—” He raises an eyebrow. “You do seem curious.” 

“I’m only as curious as you are mysterious,” says Martin, and then he shoves a piece of toast in his mouth to keep himself from saying anything else like that.

“Fair enough.” Jon takes a bite of his eggs. “There is great evil in this world.”

“Yeah?” says Martin. 

Jon glares at him with a mouthful of egg. “Hush. I’m monologuing.”

“Chew, then monologue,” says Martin, hypocritically swallowing his toast.

Jon sighs through his nose, takes another couple bites of egg, and then sets down his fork with a deliberate clink. “There is great evil in this world,” he says again. “And Elias Bouchard is the worst of it.

“He is a cruel man, and he takes pleasure in his cruelty. In using the power afforded him by his wealth and privilege to twist and manipulate, to hold a person’s livelihood over their head the way a playground bully might hold your arm behind your back. Like most cruel men, he lives in fear. He knows to the inside of his skin the terrible things a person will do in order to get what they think they deserve. And he waits on a knife’s edge for the day his own methods will be used against him in the destruction of the only thing he can truly be said to love: the Magnus Corporation.

“The Magnus Corporation has been in his family for years, handed down from father to son along with wealth and titles and a very specific political outlook. It is his inheritance, his birthright, the precious boundary between himself and the filthy mass that is the rest of humanity. Lately, however, it has begun to fail. Stocks are down, and sales have slowed to a crawl. The Magnus Corporation seems fated to die, quietly and unmourned. Elias Bouchard cannot let that happen.

“That’s where I come in. And Gerry— And Gerard Keay, and others whom we’ve lost. Bouchard will do anything to keep the bloated corpse of the Magnus Corporation afloat, and he’s well on his way to dooming the world over it. Political leaders bought off, environmental regulations sliced to ribbons — not to mention his, shall we say, lower-profile assassinations. All backed by a surveillance network I  _ still  _ haven’t been able to track down. Blackmail, extortion, torture and murder. The man may think himself above everyone, but there’s nothing to which he won’t sink. And me, well—” He breaks off suddenly, blinks as if coming back to himself, fidgets a little with the things on his plate. “I’m just trying to stop him, I suppose.”

“Wow,” Martin says slowly. He can feel toast crumbs trickling out of his mouth. “That’s— Jesus! You’re like Neo or something!”

Jon grins. “A bit, yes. Although I do unfortunately lack his weapon-dodging capabilities.”

“So — holy shit — so what do they, what does the Magnus Corporation  _ do,  _ exactly?” He leans forward in his seat a bit, unable to stop himself even when he feels eggs squishing against his shirt. “What is it that you’re trying to stop?”

“Oh!” Jon laughs to himself. “Yes, I suppose that is pertinent information. They’re a cassette tape manufacturer. And, you know, now that everything is going digital, they’re having some trouble. I mean, I have this, obviously—” He gestures to the tape recorder. “But that’s only because Elias keeps mailing me boxes of blank tapes, to show me he knows my location. Figured I might as well get  _ some  _ use out of the things.” He sighs. “The market will regulate itself, they say, but—”

“I’m sorry,” says Martin. “You got stabbed by fucking  _ Betamax?” _

“I doubt they’re doing well either, but no—”

“Cassette tapes.” Laughing feels rude but he’s not sure he can do anything else. “I had to iron your goddamn  _ skin  _ because of  _ cassette tapes.” _

“You didn’t  _ have  _ to do anything,” Jon snaps.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” says Martin, wiping at his eyes. Dead boyfriend, he reminds himself. Sensitive subject. “It’s just—  _ cassette tapes.” _

“The threat is...frivolous,” says Jon.

“Ridiculous,” says Martin.

“But the danger is real. And with that in mind…” He slides the plate off his lap and onto the bed. “Thank you. Again.” 

“Hang on,” says Martin, but he’s not quite fast enough to react as Jon heaves himself out of bed and immediately onto the floor.

“Shit,” he says, slightly muffled. “This happened last time too. Can you help me up?”

“No!” says Martin. “I mean, yes, but no! You’re not well enough to get out of bed, much less keep fighting Beta—”

“A very serious and credible threat.” 

“Yes! Fine! Whatever! You look like you’re about to start spewing everything you just ate!”

“Well I’m not,” says Jon. He painstakingly gets up onto one knee, then sways. “Hm. I am, however, about to—” 

“For fuck’s sake.” Martin grabs Jon by the shoulders before he can hit the ground, not that he had a long way to go. It’s a bit awkward to get out of his chair without dropping Jon, but Martin kneels beside him, gently turns him over onto his back, and, less gently, glares down at him. “Whenever you’re ready, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, but then he remembers he just heard somebody say that on the hospital program, and he feels stupid.

Jon blinks awake a couple of seconds later anyway. He looks up at Martin, squints and works his mouth a bit. “This is all very confusing,” he says. 

“I think fainting when you try to get up and walk four hours after almost dying is a pretty standard result, actually.” There. That one was definitely all him.

“I meant the general process of regaining consciousness, you vivisectionist,” says Jon, very sharply for someone whose eyes haven’t focused yet. “God, I should’ve asked if you were an angel or something. That would’ve shut you up.”

“It’s not too late.”

“No, it definitely is.” Predictably, Jon tries to sit up, and Martin forces him back down with a hand on his chest.

“I’m not going to stay here doing trust falls with you all day,” he says. “Alright? You can’t stand up, so just stop trying to, to do that so much.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “You’re a very practical man, Martin Blackwood.” He says “practical” like it means something else. Martin doesn’t know what. 

“You’re a stubborn arse, Jonathan Sims,” he says with no hidden meaning whatsoever.

“Yes,” says Jon. “Do you have any more witty repartee, or can I get off the floor now?”

“I could keep going,” says Martin, but he grabs Jon around the knees and shoulders and lifts him back onto the bed. And then turns away and thinks about dead puppies for a minute, because apparently nothing else in this fucking insane series of events is going to cut it.

When he turns back, Jon is staring at him. “So,” Jon says.

“So,” says Martin.

“It appears that I’m trapped here for the time being,” Jon says. “Well, well, not trapped. I mean, I can’t  _ leave,  _ but that isn’t an insult to your hospitality.”

“Thank you,” says Martin dryly.

“Yes, yes. But what are we going to  _ do?” _

“Well…” Martin thinks. “We should get that bandaged, first off, and then if you’d like to keep me company while I set up in the dining room?”

“Oh!” Jon squints at him, looking genuinely confused, but then his face clears. “Oh, yes, that would be lovely.”

“Lovely,” Martin repeats slowly. “Uh, good, then. I’ll go get some bandages and things, and you just stay. Here. Please.”

“You have my word,” says Jon, rolling his eyes, and Martin goes off to grab his first aid kit. It’s all still a bit surreal. Like he’s some chaste princess finding a handsome rogue crumpled at the bottom of her tower and nursing him back from the brink of death through the power of true love. Well, alright, true love is probably sort of strong for the situation. As is chaste princess. It hasn’t been  _ that  _ long, Jesus— Jon makes another little whimper, and Martin stops pouring the rubbing alcohol to check if he’s okay. He’s been quiet throughout all of this, straight-faced and stoic. Trying to make up for last night’s performance, maybe. Which is a ridiculous thing for Martin to assume, except it’s Jon he’s dealing with, so. “Bet you’d be a lot better at this than I am,” he says. “You seemed like you knew what you were doing, with the whole iron thing.”

“Mm?” Jon shakes his head, shuts his eyes. “I’ve picked some things up. It’s all sort of— educated improvisation. Gerry liked to actually learn about technique and such, but he was always, always one for the blood and guts.”

Martin puts down the alcohol and picks up the bandages. “And Gerry, he was your…”

“Partner,” says Jon. “In many senses of the word. What about you? Do you have anyone?”

Obviously changing the subject, but Martin figures he’s entitled just this once. “Not since school, to be honest.” He brings the bandages towards Jon’s stomach, then stops when Jon winces and indicates a gauze pad. “Right, sorry. Yeah, I think I was seventeen the last time I had a real boyfriend. There was this kid who sat behind me in my maths class, and he’d like, pass me cool rocks he found? And one day he wrapped a piece of paper around one of the rocks and it asked if I wanted to go see a movie. Eventually we started snogging like actual teenagers.” Martin smiles at the memory, then blushes. He doesn’t know why he told Jon all that. He doesn’t know why he needs to tell Jon he’s dated boys. Well, he does know that one, but it makes him feel sort of pathetic to think about, so he won’t.

“Rocks are a very solid foundation for a relationship,” Jon says in what Martin can only describe as a pun voice. Martin pokes him in the ribs, and they lapse back into a silence broken only by Jon’s soft gasps of pain. When it’s time for Martin to actually wrap the bandages he helps Jon sit up and lean against him, chin tucked into Martin’s shoulder. Martin can feel Jon’s breath hot on his neck, can even hear the minute grinding of his teeth. He takes his time with the bandages.

“There,” he says when he’s finally done. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Jon says. He’s shaking, and damp with sweat. Somewhere in all this he’s lost his shirt, and now when Jon slumps against him Martin feels all the clammy heat of him. He’s clearly not fine, but Martin doesn’t argue. People wouldn’t write so much about stoic heroes suffering if it wasn’t, somehow, honestly hot as hell.

Martin’s not a sadist, though, and he takes his time putting everything away as well, only occasionally turning to watch the stuttering rise and fall of Jon’s bare chest as he catches his breath on the bed. He gives him another couple of minutes before offering to take him to the dining room, then scoops him up as gently as he can. He points things out to Jon as he carries him down the hall, not that there’s much to point out, but Jon gamely asks questions about light fixtures and wallpaper patterns and a window that won’t quite shut all the way. Probably they’re both looking for anything to distract from the whole bridal-carry bit, now that they don’t have Jon’s agony or Martin’s panic. Only Jon’s soft, choked-back gasps when Martin turns a corner too quickly, the bruising press of his fingers into Martin’s shoulder that leaves an ache like the ghost of a kiss even after he lets go. Okay, so maybe Jon’s looking for a distraction. Martin’s just trying for plausible deniability.

He ends up having to drag a sofa into the dining room for Jon to lie back on, but he seems comfortable enough after that, so Martin gets to work. The sun is properly in the sky now, spilling out at the edges of the flower-print curtains. Martin opens them and the room fills with light. It’s a modest room, like the rest of the hotel. A half dozen square tables with mismatched chairs stacked on top of them, some worn carpeting, a low brick fireplace still piled with the same logs his mother put in it twenty years ago. There’s also a couple pots of fake flowers, which Martin had bought and placed. He’d thought they would make the place seem more lively, but now whenever he looks at them he gets a prick of nausea in the back of his throat, like he’s just scraped his fingernail over their cheap waxy leaves. 

The chairs have to come down first, and Martin starts lifting them one by one. Then he feels Jon’s eyes on him — not like there’s much else to watch — so he starts grabbing them in twos and threes. That goes quickly, and then there’s the tablecloths to unfold and spread out, and the little brass candleholders that never get lit to set on top of them. Usually at this point he’d bring the TV in and put on that soap about the close-knit farming community who’s always fucking each others’ spouses, but today he just enjoys the feeling of another person in the room. He hadn’t realized until now what a tangible feeling that was. Or how different from the sound of rated-for-universal-audiences conversations about torrid affairs in haylofts. 

Jon stays mostly silent, and a couple of times Martin looks over to see his eyes sinking shut before snapping back open. When Martin starts laying out the silverware, he asks through a yawn if he’s going to start cooking soon. “Or have you got it all set out already? On the silver trays?”

“Oh, no.” Martin laughs, polishes a spoon on his jumper. “I only make breakfast when people actually come in for it. Don’t want to waste all that food. I haven’t cooked for anybody else in, hm, maybe six months? A year?”

Jon rubs his eyes. “What’s special about today, then?”

“What?”

“Why are you setting everything up?”

“Oh, well I set up every day.” Martin takes the next spoon, which is still as clean as it has been for the past however many months, and polishes it on his jumper. “Just in case.”

“In case… You do this every day? Alone?” Jon struggles to sit up, wincing as he does so. He’s still not wearing a shirt.

“Someone has to,” Martin says with a shrug. Even though he doesn’t exactly enjoy getting up early to set up a room nobody ever uses, it feels worse to just let it sit. Like if he didn’t keep it clean he’d walk in one day to see the tables coated with dust, the corners thick with cobwebs, the windows boarded over and the lightbulbs out and realize he’s been here for much, much longer than he thought, dead and rotting with the rest of the place. Also, technically serving breakfast is the only thing really making him not-a-landlord at this point. Well, that and Jon.

“You said you’ve lived here since you were eight?” says Jon. “How old are you now? If you don’t mind.”

“It’s, uh, it’s 2016, right?” Martin asks as casually as possible.

“Unless I fainted for longer than you’re telling me, yes.”

“Oh, thank god. I’m, I’m twenty-eight. Been here for twenty years. I mean, it wasn’t always this empty!” he adds quickly. “Especially when we first got it and everything was nice.”

“How  _ does _ one get a hotel?”

“Very distant relative, apparently. We should have sold it, but my mum was so excited. And that was right after my dad left, so I wasn’t going to get in the way of anything that made her happy.” Because she had been happy when they’d first moved here. And even if she’d sort of treated happiness like a finite resource, like something Martin could only use so much of before he needed to apologize, it had been nice to see.

“And you were eight,” says Jon. 

“And I was eight,” Martin agrees. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.”

Jon laughs. “Maybe my tendency to monologue is catching.”

“Alright, don’t get ahead of yourself.” Martin tosses a pile of cloth napkins at Jon for no real reason. “That wasn’t a monologue just now. It was— short and embarrassing.”

“Well, I enjoyed it, so feel free to go on at length,” says Jon, and he must not see the way Martin’s face goes red because he holds up the napkins and asks, “How do you want these folded?”

“Oh!” says Martin. “I didn’t mean, um— However you like?”

“Swans it is,” says Jon. 

“You don’t know how to fold a swan out of a napkin.”

“I don’t,” Jon agrees, “but I’ve never let that stop me.”

“You really haven’t,” Martin says with a snort. “‘Educated improvisation’? With an  _ iron—” _

“That’s not  _ entirely—”  _ Jon begins and, although Martin doesn’t understand how in the slightest, they pass the rest of the morning in something like companionship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say that I wrote the Elias monologue before 193 came out and I'm kind of proud of how vaguely accurate it was. And I mean technically they never confirmed he _didn't_ own a cassette tape factory... 
> 
> Also, you may have noticed this has seven chapters now! That is because I actually know how the story is going to end. Which does not mean it's going to get written any faster. Anyway thank you for reading, I love your feedback, and, as I once said to a guy I was trying to ask out on a previous Valentine's day, I appreciate you as a person.


	4. i'd swear i was dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You need to sleep,” Jon says. “Voluntarily, I mean.”  
> “Mmm.” Martin leans forward, scrubs a hand across his eyes. “You alright with me leaving you alone?”  
> “There’s a bed right here.”  
> “That you’re in.”  
> “I can’t make this much simpler, Martin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My stance on medical accuracy in this fic also applies to the effects of strong painkillers. Every day I have a new reason to regret procrastinating on getting my wisdom teeth out. Also, all the chapter titles are now lyrics from Look What the Cat Dragged In by Poison because I thought that was funny and it actually fits pretty well.
> 
> Content warnings for drug use and discussions of addiction, also pain, illness, vomit, and mentions of violence and disordered eating habits

It’s around four in the afternoon when Jon finally starts to fade, and honestly, Martin is impressed. _He’s_ been falling asleep all day — leaned up against the wall with the vacuum still running, on his hands and knees with his cheek squashed against the freshly-mopped bathroom floor, and, briefly, at the front desk, before clonking his forehead against the push bell and springing up with a yelp. Right now he’s lying splayed out near some shrubbery with a trowel in his hand, the sun and Jon’s gaze equally heavy and warm on his face. “You have to stop letting me do this,” he mumbles, wiping his eyes with the hand that’s got less dirt on it.

“I could more easily stop the sun from setting,” Jon says. “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks like a piece of wood over the back of Martin Blackwood’s head?”

Martin sits up a little. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s a metaphor,” says Jon. “It means that you are very good at staying asleep.” He’d finally conceded to taking the painkillers around midday, shortly after vomiting up everything he’d previously eaten. Since then about half of what he’s said makes any sense, and as for the other half — Well, it’s not like Martin actually knows all that much about him. Maybe he just talks like that.

“So you’re saying I sleep like I just got knocked unconscious with a piece of wood.”

“Yes, exactly. Except for the look on your face. That’s beatific.” Jon squints, then grimaces. “God, I hate these things.”

Martin’s mother hadn’t liked them either. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. A bit cold.”

“Do you want to lie down?” Having already clocked Jon as one of those people who downplays their own pain — takes one to know one, but he doesn’t need to think about that — Martin’s been operating under the assumption that Jon feels about twice as bad as he says. Most of the day he’s been right. Jon had refused the painkillers even after he almost fainted when Martin picked him up to carry him to the lobby, and again when he started cursing for a solid five minutes after absentmindedly tapping a finger against his bandages. He hadn’t even wanted to take them after throwing up, but Martin had said something about needing to bring him to the hospital if he got too dehydrated, and the threat of whatever vague evil Elias Bouchard would send after him if he was found had been enough for Jon to down the pills along with several glasses of water. Martin’s self-preservation instincts are starting to look good by comparison, which is worrying.

“I’ve been lying down all day, haven’t I?” Jon stretches, then glares down at his abdomen when it apparently doesn’t behave in the way he expected it to. He is sitting up, contrary to what he just said, so Martin figures that the pills are helping some with the pain. “If I do anything _less_ I’m just going to drift away like a toad sitting on a log in a river.”

“I won’t let that happen,” says Martin, resisting the urge to laugh. He knows how disorientating sudden freedom from pain can be. “Let’s go inside, at least, if you’re cold.”

“And hungry,” Jon says as if this is only just occurring to him. Martin allows himself a laugh this time. “Oh, hush,” says Jon. _“You_ try making your thoughts go the words right when— _fuck.”_

“I know, I know.” Martin peels himself off the lawn with a groan and stands up, then reaches back down for Jon. “I’m sorry you’re having such a bad time with the pills.”

“It’s alright.” Jon grabs Martin’s arms like he’s trying to climb him as Martin lifts him up, then wraps his arms around Martin’s neck once he’s settled. This is completely unnecessary, but, while Martin may be strong enough to carry Jon without assistance, he is not strong enough to tell him this. Especially when Jon sighs, his breath warm on Martin’s skin. “I have enough hooks in my brain already.”

“Hooks?” Martin begins to pick his way out of the sort-of garden and onto the path that leads to the back entrance, trying not to jostle Jon too much.

“You know, like—” Jon bares his teeth and tightens his grip on Martin’s neck, although Martin can't tell if this is in pain or demonstration. “Cigarettes, and things.”

“Do you mean cravings?” Martin asks. “Addictions?” Jon hasn’t actually smoked since last night, but he’s been sort of twitchy all day in a way that makes Martin think he might want to, fiddling with the buttons on his tape recorder and pressing his fingertips on the points of his teeth.

“Mm-hm.” Possibly proving Martin right, Jon removes one of his arms from Martin’s neck and grabs for his tape recorder where it’s swaddled in his shirt like a small child. Well, the shirt actually belongs to Martin. It’s large enough on Jon to have room for the tape recorder and an awful lot of bare collarbone. The only proof Martin has that god loves him is that the sight of this has not killed him yet. “I have a few, and I’d rather not add any more if I can help it.”

“Is adrenalin one of them?” He’s not sure why he says that, but then he’s not sure _what_ to say to Jon telling him something like this. Hopefully nothing horrendously stupid. 

“That’s right,” Jon says. “Cigarettes, adrenalin, and masturbation.” He laughs, and doesn’t seem to notice when Martin nearly drops him. “No, there’s been others. Worse. But I’m doing alright now.”

“Is, is that why you didn’t want the pills this morning?” They’re rounding the corner of the hotel now, headed towards the rear entrance, and Martin keeps his eyes to the ground as much as he can. He’d rather not trip and faceplant onto Jon, if he can help it. It also happens to be quite a bit easier than looking him in the eye. For multiple reasons. “I-I’m sorry. I should’ve asked.”

“It’s alright,” says Jon. “Not like I had much of a choice.”

Martin wishes he could disagree. He continues staring at the ground like he could apologize to it instead, and still almost crushes the cassette tape laid out on the path, barely managing not to step on it. He squints at it, then picks it up and puts it in his pocket without a word. He can slip it back to Jon later, and not upset him any more than he already is. How heroic of himself. Martin Blackwood, doling out opioid painkillers and not noticing when you drop the last thing your partner ever gave you and not wanting to be yelled at for any of it.

The inside of the Cat Dragged Inn isn’t much warmer than the outside, this late in the day, so Martin takes them back to his mother’s room. He puts Jon down on the bed and then, finally, goes to get him some actual blankets. Sheets would probably be nice too, but he’s not going to push it. God, all he wants to do is lie down. At least he doesn’t have to cook anything else. Jon has rediscovered the remains of his breakfast and is now horking down his congealed eggs like they’re going to turn into chickens and run away. Martin wonders what he usually eats for breakfast. Quick things, probably, if he’s always on the run from homicidal cassette tape manufacturers. Or maybe he’s one of those people who smokes instead of eating. Leans up against brick walls in alleys, wrist curved back and a cigarette between his fingers, smoke slowly swirling off into the hazy London sky… 

“You need to sleep,” Jon says, and for a minute he’s saying it to the empty alley. “Voluntarily, I mean.”

“Mmm.” Martin leans forward, scrubs a hand across his eyes. “You alright with me leaving you alone?”

“There’s a bed right here.”

“That you’re in.”

“I can’t make this much simpler, Martin.”

“Oh.” Martin finds that he’s not too tired to blush. He thinks he’s justified. It’s a single bed. “You’re sure that’s okay?”

“Yes, Martin, I’m perfectly fine with you sleeping in your own bed.” Jon starts to scoot over, then winces. “I may need some help getting arranged.”

“Pills wearing off?”

“Must be.”

So Jon wants to share a bed with him even when he’s not high. Cool. _Irrelevant._ He helps Jon move over, then climbs onto the bed himself. The cassette tape in his pocket jabs against his hip. Maybe he can slip it back to Jon when he’s asleep. On the other hand, he’s almost definitely going to pass out before Jon. “Don’t let me stay here too long,” he murmurs to Jon. “Lots to do…”

“Of course.” There’s a smile in Jon’s voice. He’s pressed right up next to Martin, elbow to elbow, hip to hip, knee to knee. Probably halfway to falling off the bed, if Martin’s position is anything to judge by, but god, he’s so _warm._ Martin’s mind goes back to the alley. Jon stares up at the sky, watching the smoke rise, and hisses when his cigarette burns down to his fingertips. Then there’s Gerry, a vaguely attractive blur. _You’re going to burst into flames someday,_ he says in a voice that’s not quite his and not quite Martin’s, and he pins Jon so gently to the wall of the alley, and takes his burned fingers into his mouth, and the two men swirl and melt together and rise up into the smoke.

After God knows how long, Martin wakes to the sound of the real Gerry’s voice. It comes through in short staccato bursts as Jon fidgets with the buttons on the tape recorder. _“You — need — to — run —”_

“Sleep well?” Jon’s still smiling, which is less disconcerting than it should be. He’s also practically cuddling Martin, one of his arms somehow wormed under Martin’s back and their legs tangled. “Sorry,” he says to the little sound Martin makes in the back of his throat. “It’s freezing in here. And you’re a bit of a restless sleeper, you know.”

“I’m not _that_ restless,” Martin retorts. “If you were able to get your tape back without waking me up.”

“Back?” Jon squints at him, then swipes his free hand across his face. He’s sweating, which makes Martin wonder how cold he actually is, but— Well, if Jon doesn’t want to move, it’s not like Martin wants to either. “What do you mean, back?”

“From my—” Martin’s heart speeds up, just a bit. “— pocket?”

Jon’s eyes go wide, and he tries to sit up. “If I could have my _arm_ back—”

“Oh! Sorry, right right right.” Obviously. Why is he an idiot? “I just—” Martin rolls off of Jon, digs through his pocket for the tape. Which is still there. Not good. “Found this?” He holds up the tape. Jon stares at it. He clicks on his own tape recorder without a word.

 _“I love you, Jon,”_ Gerry’s voice says quite clearly. _“For all the good that will do.”_

Jon shuts the tape off quickly, as if it hurts him to hear this. “Martin,” he says carefully, “please tell me you’re one of those pretentious people who insists music sounds better in analog.” 

“Look who’s talking,” says Martin, who definitely looks up vinyl recordings of songs on youtube to hear the record crackle. “You’re the one carting around a Walkman—”

“Martin!” Jon sounds somehow both amused and utterly terrified. Probably has a lot of practice with that. “Where did you find this tape?”

“I— It was, it was just on the ground? I thought you’d dropped it.” 

Wrong answer. Jon snatches the tape out of Martin’s hand, ejects poor dead Gerry and presses play on the recorder before Martin can even blink. 

_“Do you think he’s here?”_ someone asks in a deep voice. 

“They could be talking about anyone,” says Martin. He doesn’t know why he says it. He feels very stupid.

 _“Dunno,”_ says another voice, a bit higher-pitched. _“Sims usually goes a little seedier for his lie-lows. Of course, that was when he was with Keay, and god knows that jackass had to be within fifty meters of a tattoo parlor at all times.”_

“Alright,” says Martin. “That’s pretty specific.”

“Would you _please_ be _quiet.”_ Jon’s teeth are clenched, and the sweat is absolutely pouring down his face. Martin gets the impression that he very dearly wants a cigarette. 

_“Keay was also better at covering his tracks,”_ says the deep voice. _“I’m telling you, this time a lead’s a lead. Sims wasn’t laying a false trail while his guts were leaking out.”_

_“But there’s still the house. And the back room in the bar.”_

_“We’ll have time to check all of them. Wherever Sims is now—”_ A short laugh containing a disturbing amount of genuine joy _“— he’s not leaving anytime soon.”_

_“Fair enough. Where should we leave his present?”_

_“Just put it on the path. That fucking innkeeper’ll find it, if he’s doing his job.”_

_“Don’t think he does much else. Hello, Jonathan Sims,”_ the voice says suddenly. Martin jumps as if its owner is in the room with them. _“If you find this, you can look forward to seeing us soon, and if not...I guess it’ll be a surprise.”_

The audio cuts out, but the tape goes on, whirring and whirring in the silence. Martin, by now perched about as close to the edge of the bed as he can get, chances a look towards Jon. Jon’s chest is heaving, and his eyes have gone very far away. “I need to leave,” he says. “Now.”

“They, they seemed pretty confident that you would stay,” says Martin. The tape keeps spinning. Any minute now it’s going to cut off with a thunk, and Martin is going to flinch, and the anticipation of it is already itching at the back of his neck. “Are you sure they don’t have the place booby-trapped or something?”

“They don’t.” Jon laughs. “They’re just very proud of their handiwork.” He curls a hand over his abdomen and makes a frustrated little noise in the back of his throat. Martin can already tell that he’s going to fall over when he tries to stand up. 

“Listen,” he says, because if there’s any reason in this situation _someone_ has to be the voice of it. “They said they were going to check the, the other two places first, right? We have time to make a plan that’s not just you booking it.”

 _“‘Booking_ it—’” Jon sits up a little, then cringes and brings his chin down to meet his chest “— is the only option I have. However much time. These people, these, Julia and Trevor Herbert—” He’s starting to breathe heavily through his nose. “You don’t _know_ them. They’re hunters. You can’t hide from them. You can run or you can fight. And I—” He lifts his head, gasps, squeezes his eyes shut. He’s shaking now, or he’s been shaking, painful-looking tremors that rock his shoulders and click his teeth. He takes a long, slow breath, and when he looks up at Martin his eyes are red-rimmed and slick. “I can’t fight.”

“You’re ill,” Martin says. He reaches towards Jon. Jon pulls away. “Jon—”

“Doesn’t matter,” says Jon. “I mean, I’m not.”

“Pick one, Jon.”

 _“Doesn’t matter.”_ His teeth are clenched nearly enough to stop them chattering. “I’m _dead_ if I stay here. _You’re_ dead. And they like to play with their food. And Elias—” There’s a pause. The tape recorder whirs. Jon takes a ragged breath and vomits into his own cupped palms.

Martin stares at the man in front of him. For a minute there’s the sensation of the world narrowing down onto just the two of them, the only sound the tape, the only smell vomit, and the only thing to see the way light gleams off beads of sweat. Then Jon sobs and the spell is broken. Martin drags him close and clutches him to his chest, ignoring the sweat and the puke. 

Martin doesn’t know anything about hunters, or conspiracies, or really all that much about cassette tape manufacturers. He can barely patch a stab wound and he couldn’t win a knife fight with a gun. But he can take care of people. He can take care of Jon. Until whatever’s coming for him comes. 

“Shh,” he says. “It’s alright.” He helps Jon lie down on the bed. Jon doesn’t try to pull away or argue anymore, just shakes and cries and curls in on himself. Miserable. But Martin can fix that. “Stay here,” he says, as if Jon can do anything else. “I’m going to get you something to drink.” 

The hotel is silent as Martin walks to the kitchen. The air has a physical weight. 

It doesn’t feel like anything he’s ever seen in any movie at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WILL PEPPER IN THE FACT THAT MARTIN IS HORNY. Hope y'all enjoyed, see you soon-ish!

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to note that this fic is going to have much less of a plot than it seems like. This is basically a hurt/comfort interlude for a larger story that doesn’t exist. And also possibly the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written. Anyway hope you all enjoyed! Chapter 2 coming soon. [This note is going to be at my funeral. Get ready for Chapter 5.]


End file.
